


The Hound and the Wolf

by MsNomer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25931395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsNomer/pseuds/MsNomer
Summary: Sylvia Cousland, quite possibly last of her line, has suddenly been thrown into a world she is ill-equipped to deal with, and the decisions she is forced to make will have far-reaching consequences not only for herself but for all of Thedas. At least she's not alone.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 3





	The Hound and the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a small project that I was working on to get back into writing that grew rapidly out of control.  
> Rated Explicit for described violence (and likely for later chapters...).

* * *

_‘_ _Sylvia…Sylvia!'_  
  
Sylvia Cousland sunk a little further down in her makeshift fortress of sacks of grain and hay bales, trying to avoid being seen through the wide-open hatches of the stable loft, her eyes not leaving the pages of the battered book propped on her knees. Further down at her feet, her gigantic mabari hound Faolin flicked an ear and opened a sleepy eye, rolling it towards her disapprovingly. She absent-mindedly reached down to scratch his ears, and he shifted to rest his head on her ankles, sighing contentedly, his heavy tail thudding against the wooden floorboards and making motes of dust dance in the sunlight that was peeking through the cracks in the wall.  
  
_‘Sylvia, where_ are _you?’_  
  
The voice was much closer this time. Sylvia grimaced, her concentration broken, and reluctantly twisted to peek through one of the larger cracks in the wall of hay, wondering if there was any imminent danger of discovery. She knew she’d pay dearly for her absence, but an angry scolding from her mother, the Teyrna of Highever, seemed far preferable to the alternative. 

_Dresses,_ she thought to herself grumpily. Uncomfortable frilly dresses, with stupid matching frilly shoes which would undoubtedly be somehow even more uncomfortable. Her mother was set on stuffing her into some outfit or another before the day was out, and all because Arl Rendon Howe was visiting the castle for the evening before marching out to Ostagar with her father, brother, and the combined forces of Amaranthine and Highever the following day.   
  
Sylvia puffed out an exasperated sigh at the thought. She had been hinting for her father to take her along with them ever since the King had sent word requesting forces a few weeks ago, and he had either been too distracted with preparations to pick up on them at all or was being deliberately obtuse, and she was starting to heavily suspect it was the latter.   
  
She glowered at the book in front of her, trying not to grind her teeth at the unfairness of it all. So what if Fergus was eight years older than her? She had been training every week for the last few years and was perfectly capable with a blade. And, to get the chance to see a real, live darkspawn…

The older soldiers of Highever, gathering at the tables in the Great Hall after dinnertime for what her father delicately termed carousing, would only tell those stories after they were thoroughly in their cups, and always in hushed tones - as though saying the name itself might bring a horde of ghouls down upon the castle. Mother Mallol had always said that Darkspawn were caused by Tevinter magisters violating the Golden City of the Maker, and punished for that act by turning into soulless, bloodthirsty beasts who were cast out of the heavens to fall to earth as a warning to the world. But the old soldiers had said that was nonsense, although when young Sylvia had asked what they thought darkspawn were, they'd just shaken their heads with lips clamped shut and changed the subject. Before she could wheedle out any better answers, however, her father had discovered the source of her extra-curricular education when one night while Lady Landra, her mother's best friend, was dining with them, Sylvia had uttered the word ‘Bugger’ after dropping her spoon under the dinner table. Much to her annoyance, from that time forward she had been banished from the vicinity of the barracks. She’d always wondered though…

_‘Aha!’_  
  
Sylvia yelped loudly at the sudden sound and twisted around to find a tall, redheaded man looming over her, grinning at her from above.   
  
‘Oh, Maker’s arse, Rory.’ she said disgustedly, relaxing her grip on the book. ‘Don’t scare me like that, I thought you were my mother.’   
  
‘You should be scared. She’s been looking for you for over an hour now.’ said Ser Gilmore, plopping down on the bale at her side and reaching down to give Faolin, who hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid at the intrusion, a good scratch. 

‘Aw. Is the big brave knight afraid of my sweet, darling mother?’ she teased. 

‘As the big brave knight is not a complete fool, the answer would be yes.’ said Rory, as Faolin shifted under his attentions with a happy sigh.   
  
Sylvia ducked her head to try and hide a grin. It was common knowledge in Highever that Lady Cousland had, before her marriage to the Teyrn, been the terror of Orlesian-occupied Fereldan seas, the infamous and feared Sea Wolf. Hard as it was to imagine now, as her mother fussed about with fashionable cupcake flavours and the latest Antivan dress trimmings, although a glimpse of it could be caught now and again should her husband the Teyrn forget to remove his muddy boots after training with the men. 

But Ser Gilmore had caught sight of the cover of her book and said in a tone of mixed amusement and exasperation, ‘Maker’s breath, Sylvia. How many times have you read that one now?’ 

‘Not that many.’ said Sylvia slightly defensively, smoothing her fingers over lettering that spelled out “Calenhad the Great” in an ornate, gilded print. ‘I just... it's interesting to read heroic stories that mention your own family.’ 

Rory rolled his eyes. ‘As though there weren’t enough of those about the Couslands. I swear every second generation of your forebears inspires a separate ballad. Does it ever get tiring to have all that burning heroism coursing through your veins?’ 

‘Says the actual knight.’ Sylvia said in a teasing tone, snapping the book shut. Then, as a thought occurred to her, she looked up at him with a quizzical expression. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ 

Rory grinned at her. ‘I’m afraid I was sent to find you by your mother. She urgently requires your presence in her chambers, and will not rest until you are delivered.’ 

Sylvia scowled. ‘Traitor. I bet you’d be hiding if they wanted to make you wear a dress too.’ 

‘Well, they’d have to shave me first.’ he said lightly, getting to his feet. ‘Anyway, you’d better come along, she’s about to get the whole garrison out searching for you.’ 

‘Don’t you have better things to do?’ whined Sylvia. ‘Why don’t you go train or something.’ 

‘As you wish, _Milady. _’__ he said, bowing mockingly.   
  
She scowled and threw the book at Rory, but he was too quick on his feet and dodged easily, the book ricocheting off the wooden beam behind his head with a heavy clunk. 

‘Now, now, Syl, stop abusing the books, or Aldous won’t let you have any more.’ She could practically hear the smirk in his voice as he darted down the stairs and quickly out of range of any more projectile literature. 

She sighed and heaved herself to her feet, crossing the straw littered floor to where the book had fallen. With a grimace, she noticed that the spine of the leather-bound book had split slightly on impact. __  
  
__Rory was right, Aldous would not be pleased, she thought to herself. _ _ _And he’s not the only one…___

* * *

‘Really, Sylvia, must you wear leathers everywhere?’ complained Eleanor Cousland. ‘You smell like a city tannery.’ 

‘They’re comfortable and practical, mother. And I was only just training a few hours ago, so I needed them.’ Sylvia said, slightly petulantly in tone but without any heat.  
  
As soon as her mother had bustled her into the dressing room, she had peeled all but her innermost clothing from her and shoved her towards the deep stone bath, already filled with steaming hot water. Oriana, her brother’s wife, had confiscated her leather armour, touching it only gingerly and averting her face as though she was being forced to carry a dead rat, which Sylvia thought was peculiar because she kept her leather armour exceptionally well maintained, and the only thing it really smelled of was pleasantly like leather and brass, and, at the moment, a little bit hayloft.

Now she sat miserably on a small carved stool, smelling of the flowery lotion she’d been commanded to apply after her bath, while Oriana and Eleanor flitted around, pressing different coloured dresses to her and holding her hair one way and then another, all the while chattering in what appeared to be gibberish. 

‘Do you think she’s a more a winter or a summer?’ 

‘With her auburn hair, she must be an autumn, no?’ came the lilting voice of Oriana.

‘And the light eyes, yes. True, I think.’ 

‘Cool colours then.’ 

Sylvia tried not to fidget too much as a series of dresses in a dazzling array of shades and styles were held in her general vicinity and discussed at length. At her feet, Faolin let out a long sigh and rested his head on his paws, looking up at her with a long-suffering expression.

‘I know, boy.’ She said gloomily, as yet another dress was quickly compared against her skin and then just as rapidly whisked away. ‘At least they’re not trying to put you in a dress.’ She thought about it. ‘Yet, anyway.’ 

The mabari sat up and sneezed at her disapprovingly. 

‘You would look very fetching.’ teased Sylvia, reaching out a bare foot to nudge him slightly. ‘Something dashing in plaidweave, I’d say.’ 

Faolin gave her a look, licked her from ankle to knee, and padded softly to the door, nosing it open and sticking his head out into the hallway. 

‘Faolin, you turncoat! Don’t leave me here by myself!’ she called after him. 

She heard his heavy paws padding away down the stone corridor, let out a defeated sigh, and resigned herself to her fate. 

* * *

‘Well now…what do you think?’ 

The dress was a gentle teal, far less ornate than the ones Oriana habitually wore _ _, _thank the Maker_ ,__ Sylvia thought to herself. It lightly cinched at the waist before flaring out over the hips, falling smoothly down to the floor where it whispered against the embroidered rug beneath her slippered feet. The sleeves gathered close at the wrists, making them look oddly delicate - if you didn't look too closely at the hands below them, which were slightly more calloused than the average nobleman's daughter. 

Oriana had pulled and twisted and tugged her hair into some kind of obscenely complicated braid, which curved around the entirety of her head like a woven crown. Underneath that, at the nape of her neck, soft curls cascaded gently down her back, shining even in the dim lighting.

The overall effect was…. pretty, she reluctantly admitted to herself. She looked every part the daughter of a noble house from a child's storybook.

‘It’s better than I thought it would be.’ she said begrudgingly, then winced at how ungrateful she must have sounded. However, when she turned to them both to apologize, they were chuckling. 

‘High praise indeed from you!’ said her mother, stepping forward and slightly adjusting a wayward curl. She tilted Sylvia’s chin upwards and smiled at her fondly. ‘You look beautiful.’ 

Sylvia felt both warmed and embarrassed. She ducked her head, her cheeks burning, and stared intently at the fire. 

Eleanor Cousland just laughed and stepped back, hands falling to her sides. ‘I know how you’re feeling, Sylvia.’ she said gently. ‘It was hard for me to get used to wearing less practical clothing too when I married your father. But there’s a time and a place for both leathers and courtly clothes, and as a daughter of Highever it is your duty to be at ease in both.’ 

‘I know, I know.’ said Sylvia reluctantly, fiddling with the sleeves, which were a lot more restrictive than they looked. ‘It just seems so pointless to go to so much effort when the only person coming here is Rendon Howe.’ 

Eleanor sniffed as she busied herself tucking a few small stray strands of hair behind her daughter’s ears. ‘While he is not altogether…agreeable, Rendon is your father’s old friend and sworn ally, as well as the Arl of Amaranthine. He is due... _some_ level of our respect.’ 

Sylvia glowered, but before she could say something snarky about the agreeableness of Rendon Howe, there was a frantic knock on the door, and Rory’s voice called out ‘Uh, hello? My Lady Cousland, Is it safe to come in?’ 

‘Enter, Ser Gilmore.’ said Eleanor, starting to gather the unused finery that had been discarded around the room during their efforts. 

Rory opened the door, started ‘Cook says- ‘ and then stopped abruptly, eyes widened, as he laid eyes on Sylvia. 

Sylvia looked up at him, feeling as though she had been caught red-handed doing something both embarrassing and incredibly foolish. ‘Cook says what, Rory?’ she asked, red-faced and trying to brush off her self-consciousness. She heard a light chuckle behind her from Oriana, although in the grips of the burning embarrassment that was heating the tips of her ears, she didn’t feel like speculating why. 

‘Uh, um…Cook says…’ he coughed lightly, averting his gaze, eyebrows raised. ‘Cook says your hound has gotten into the pantry again and to, and I quote, come and bloody get him or she’ll turn him into tonight’s stew.’ He coughed uneasily and made a short bow to the Teryna. ‘Please excuse the language, Lady Cousland, but it seemed quite urgent.’ 

Eleanor sighed. ‘I suppose you’d better go, Sylvia, before she has a fit. But please be back before dusk - Arl Howe is expected for dinner.’ 

Sylvia jumped to her feet, grateful to be able to escape outside, and rushed out the door, despite the long folds of the dress tangling around her ankles and hampering her movement along the way.

She’d gotten a good twenty yards up the cobblestone hallway before noticing that Ser Gilmore was trailing a few feet behind her, instead of beside her as she had expected. She stopped short, confused, and asked ‘Rory? Are you ok?’ 

He didn’t meet her gaze as he nodded. ‘I’m fine…’ he said slowly, a slight frown knitting his brows. 

She gave him a look. ‘Convincing.’ When he still didn’t respond, she impatiently exclaimed ‘Rory!’ 

‘You just look…so different.’ he said hesitantly. ‘I thought you were a visiting noblewoman for a second when I saw you with your mother. It was just…strange.’ 

She looked down at her dress 'I know I don't feel like this clothing is, well, me...but I’m the same person I always was. Remember when we replaced the pages in Mother Mallol’s Chant of Light with obscene limericks just before she was due to read for that visiting Revered Mother? Or when we drew that moustache on the statue of King Calenhad in the courtyard and nobody noticed for weeks?’ 

Rory cracked a small grin. ‘Your mother wasn’t pleased, but your father said it rather suited him if I recall.’

‘He laughed about that for ages.’ said Sylvia. She looked up at him and grimaced. ‘Is it because I look ridiculous like this?’ she asked, fiddling with a particularly frilly section her dress. 

‘No!’ Rory said quickly, and then looked embarrassed again and continued more softly. ‘No, not at all. In fact, quite the opposite. You look… well, you look like a Teryn’s daughter. Elegant and dainty and - and very pretty.’ he looked down for a moment then up again with a sudden smirk. ‘So absolutely not like yourself at all.’ 

‘Rory!’ Sylvia exclaimed, torn between amusement and offence. 

‘You called, my lady?’ said Rory, with the same broad grin she’d seen on his face for years.

‘Oh sod off.’ she laughed

‘If your Ladyship wishes - however, I would suggest that our time would be better spent hunting down that mabari of yours before Nan makes good on her threat.’ 

Sylvia set off again down the cobblestoned passageways, with Rory following close behind. ‘Come then. Let's see what trouble he's gotten into this time.’ 

* * *

Faolin’s barking echoed so loudly along the stone walls of the Castle that it could be heard from a hundred yards away - however, it was currently being mostly drowned out by the shrill voice of Nan the castle cook, who was shrieking swear words that Sylvia had never heard before, not even from the most disreputable of castle soldiers. She met Rory’s amused glance with a look of mischievous glee as they paused outside the door, listening with interest for a moment to the rather creative profanity coming from within, and then opened it. 

‘-by Maferath’s hairy arse, you motherless son of a goat, if you don’t get out of that void taken larder-‘ Nan looked up at the sound the kitchen door opening, greying hair askew and face flushed red with fury, and focused on Sylvia, eyes narrowing. ‘YOUR SODDING MONGREL-’ 

Rory stepped forward- rather bravely Sylvia thought, as at this moment she would rather have faced a darkspawn than the enraged woman in front of them- and said, ‘Erm…c-calm down, Nan. We’ve come to help…’ 

This was evidently the wrong thing to say, as Nan's face grew even more incandescently crimson. ‘CALM DOWN? Your hairy mutt is ransacking my larder as we stand here and you want me to CALM DOW-‘ 

‘Sorry Nan,’ interjected Sylvia meekly, before Nan could really get going. ‘We’ll get him out right now.’ 

Nan glowered at them both for a few seconds, and then seemed to slightly settle her ruffled feathers, letting out an angry growl. ‘Just get him gone. I’ve got enough to do with a castle full of hungry soldiers, and another bloody lot on the way.’ 

‘Yes, Nan.’ Rory and Sylvia chorused in unison, edging towards the door, where the sound of the mabari’s vociferous woofing was still echoing from. The cook scowled at them once more before turning on her heel, swooping across the kitchen towards a couple of elven servants like a large and belligerent crow, muttering to herself ominously. 

They looked at each other, both stifling a laugh at the other's expression, and then crossed to the pantry door. 

The mabari didn’t even glance up as they entered, continuing to bark and scrabble at a row of sacks which were taking up the entire wall. His gigantic paws with their strong, curved claws had shredded many of the bags, spilling their contents onto the floor of the pantry, and Sylvia tried not to think about what Nan’s reaction to the chaos would be when she discovered it.

‘Yes, good boy.’ said Sylvia soothingly, bending down to give him a scratch behind the ears. ‘You got that big mean ol’ bag of wheat, well done.’ 

Rory stood surveying the scene, hands on hips, and heaved a great sigh. ‘Look at this mess.’ he turned back to the sturdy wooden door, a confused look on his face, ‘How did Faolin even get in here?’ 

Faolin turned for a second to regard them with a goofy grin and barked happily at them, and then turned back to scratching. 

‘Maybe he was hungry and he slipped in when nobody was looking?’ suggested Sylvia, standing back up and looking around. ‘There’s not much to eat for him in here though…’

‘Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I would think he was trying to tell you something.’ said Rory thoughtfully. 

Seemingly in response, the burly mabari spun around excitedly in a circle, letting out happy little barks. Suddenly, mid-spin, he stiffened completely and turned, pointed ears pricked towards the pile of sacks. 

‘What is-‘ began Sylvia, but did not have time to finish before Faolin started to growl, low and menacingly, his hackles standing to attention along the ridge of his back. 

‘That’s not good.’ said Rory, edging back away from the mabari slightly. ‘I’ve never heard him- wait, did you hear that?’ 

Without further warning, a massive, foot-long rat wriggled out through from between some grain sacks, quickly followed by one, five, a dozen more. The mabari was on them in an instant, but more and more poured out from behind the sacks and started to aggressively advance on Rory and Sylvia, with surprisingly menacing squeaks. 

'Rats!’ Rory exclaimed, grimacing and drawing his sword. He seemed reluctant to swing at any until one of them bit him soundly on the ankle, whereupon he let out a pained grunt and started slashing away. 

Sylvia deftly snatched the dagger from Rory's belt and set to work to stem the tide, and before long the mabari was pouncing on the last rat with a happy bark and a grotesque crunch. 

‘Where in the void did they come from?’ panted Rory, out of breath, still clutching his gory sword. He lowered it, turned to Sylvia, and then put a hand over his mouth, his expression changing to one of mingled panic and amusement. ‘Oh, Makers Beard…’ 

Sylvia looked down at herself. While from the waist upwards she had escaped most of the damage, there were splotches of blood all over the lower half of the dress, the hemline was stained an unattractive brown from the muddy floor, and her pretty embroidered slippers could absolutely not be categorized as pale blue anymore. Rory had not fared much better by any means, but his leather armour had proven far more protective against ballistic rat guts.

She looked up at him, grimacing. ‘So on a scale of one to ten, how much is my mother going to murder me?’ 

‘Oh, a ten. Definitely a ten.’ 

There was a moment of silence and then they both burst out laughing. ‘Well,’ Sylvia said, standing and attempting to wipe some of the gore off her hands and onto the ruined dress. ‘At least I should look rather more like myself now.’ 

‘Covered in guts and flour? Seems about right.’ Rory said, cleaning his sword off on a discarded sack before sheathing it again. Sylvia wiped the blade of the dagger and gave it back to him. ‘Look, you’d better change before Lady Cousland catches you like this. Maybe you can have it washed before dinner?’ 

Sylvia glanced down again at her bloodstained garments and grimaced. ‘Maybe.’ 

They both heard a strange sound behind them and whipped around, expecting another wave of gigantic rats, but instead found Faolin horking down the carcasses left behind.

‘Makers breath.’ exclaimed Rory, disgustedly, and Sylvia grimaced before laughing.

‘I suppose this way at least we don’t have to tidy up after ourselves as much?’

Rory watched in revolted fascination as the mabari wolfed down the last furry corpse with apparent satisfaction. ‘And I guess you won’t need to feed him tonight…’

After they snuck out from the kitchens while Nan was busy haranguing the servants, Sylvia set off to her quarters, with her mabari gambolling along behind her, seemingly extremely pleased with himself and still licking his chops.

* * *


End file.
